Horror Movies Based on My Actual Fears

I have to walk for more than two minutes through a dark parking lot to
get to my car. Nothing happens, and I reach my car safely, but the John
Williams score swells and heightens the suspense, so I start running, my
eyes darting around—a sacred, nightly ritual of single womanhood.

“Drafted”

All of my tweet drafts suddenly get posted without my approval, and the
whole world learns that I spend most of my day speculating about how
toasters work. Stricken with embarrassment, I am forced to delete my Twitter account, burn my computer, and move to a new country. (This is a foreign
film.)

“The Vroom”

My Lyft driver looks like he is about to take the longer route, which
has heavy traffic. I don’t know how to tell him this politely, because I
realize it’s his job, and because of my inherent, crippling need to
please. The entire film takes place in the moment just before he has to
merge lanes and turn left. We never learn what happens, because I sweat
about two gallons and die of dehydration.

“The Exercise”

I’m about to go for a run, when I realize I’ve forgotten my earphones. I
have to exercise without them, which leaves me no choice but to listen
to my own thoughts—pondering the importance of life and the beauty of
nature—without distraction from whichever pop songs Spotify has deemed
Freaky Disco. I end up feeling physically and mentally refreshed, a
terrifying state of being.

I come across an insightful idea but then immediately forget it. Later
on, believing that it’s an original thought, I share it on social media.
I am instantly condemned for stealing someone else’s work, and I am
scarlet-lettered by all of society. This is ironic because what I
accidentally stole and republished in a tweet thread was the entirety of
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter.” I am banned from Twitter
after multiple verified Nazis report me for plagiarism.

“A Fear of Oneself”

I have finally consumed so much toxic media that I begin to internalize
misogyny. I am a self-objectified cog (with curves!) in the masculine
machine. I stress about being overweight, talking shrilly, and taking up
too much space. I am incapable of saying the word “period” out loud.

“The Shouldering”

This is a psychological thriller in which I am a burden to everyone I
know. Despite my greatest efforts to be chill, I am a terrible nuisance
and frustratingly type-A. The worst part is that I cannot tell if I am
imagining this, and the speculation is what ultimately drives me insane.